Everywhere were the signs of fresh works. Wizard-wrights levitated the tumbled blocks of broken fortifications to stand once more atop one another, their fellows mortaring them into place with molten stone jetting from lances that burned with a magical heat. New life returned to the bones of the dead town. The gate shone with pure energies of untainted magic. Chrono-smiths worked their gentle but potent spells, walking solemnly around and around the gate’s town, and their deep, sonorous chants provided a calming counter note to the clamour of construction. Wherever their sandalled feet passed, the land seemed changed, cleansed.
The realm was healing.
Trumpets and warhorns blared. An honour guard formed up along the wide highway leading out of the gate eastwards towards the Shattered City. These men wore the turquoise armour of the Celestial Vindicators, and had left their Warrior Chambers to hold the gate when the first attack on Elixia had been undertaken. They stood tall and proud, eager to welcome their brothers back.
Black clouds raced overhead and lightning blazed. A vanguard of Stormcasts from five Stormhosts was deposited along the cliffs to the north and upon the road ahead of the gate. Liberators and Judicators took up defensive positions. Prosecutors leapt skyward, scanning the lands for enemies. All was expertly done, but done for the sake of procedure. The lands around the gate already belonged to the forces of Azyr.
Trumpets blew again. The Bright Tor Gate throbbed and opened. The field of magic bowed, glowing brightly, swelling forward over the road. Shining motes detached themselves from this luminescence, dimmed, and took on the shapes of marching men. Lord Thostos Bladestorm, as finder of the hammer, emerged first. A swaying forest of standards followed, the icons and banners of the Celestial Vindicators all together. Then the remainder of the Stormhosts came out.
Excepting a few brotherhoods assigned to guard the Silverway and the Bright Tor Gate, the entire host emerged in a long column. Their fellows lining the way cheered and shouted, but their welcome stumbled and quietened when their greetings were not returned.
The singing of the Celestial Vindicators, once renowned for its volume and fervour, had become restrained, though they marched with no less purpose. Thostos passed beyond the gate plaza, through a tumbled gateway that was already covered in scaffolding. Mortal craftsmen stepped back, first in respect but then in fear. Thostos’ armour sparked and fizzed with magic. His eyes glowed a dull blue, not bright enough to outshine daylight, but when he walked in shadow one could see them glimmer coldly. Many of the warriors who walked behind him showed similar signs of change. There was a silence and a certain dreaminess in their bearing. As more and more of those who had fallen and been reforged marched forth, the shouts of their brothers lining the route died altogether.
The grim rearguard of the Celestial Vindicators came out from the gate. A gap opened up. More trumpets sounded, and the gate’s light swelled again, and the Hammers of Sigmar came forth. The Hammerhands were at the fore, Lord-Celestant Vandus Hammerhand upon the dracoth Calanax leading them.
Amid Vandus’ own ranks were many who had fallen, and this was giving the Lord-Celestant cause for concern.
Vandus had summoned his Lord-Relictor, Ionus Cryptborn, to march at his side. They spoke quietly. Overly cautious perhaps, for the trudge of thousands of feet covered all but the loudest clarions and warsongs.
‘Thostos has changed,’ said Vandus to Ionus. ‘He speaks only a little, and what he says is distant. I feel that I must strive constantly for his attention. His eyes burn with blue fire. The air crackles around him and all who approach him feel the heat of his rage. And he is not alone.’
‘Small wonder,’ replied Ionus, ‘for here in the Bright Tor Mountains, Thostos died. Under these same peaks, he will be avenged.’
‘I spoke with him on the way to the muster chamber. I asked him if he had been changed, if we were truly eternal as Lord Sigmar promised.’
‘And what did he reply?’
‘He said “yes”. To which of the two questions, I cannot fathom. Then he strode away from me.’
Calanax rumbled. Vandus absently scratched at the celestial beast’s neck.
‘I see,’ said Ionus.
‘Ionus, I call you to me for counsel. You wield the magics of the storm.’
‘At my lord Sigmar’s command.’
‘You came from death, so they say.’
‘I have two masters. You know that, friend of old.’
‘Then please, as my friend and adviser, tell me what has occurred? We are promised eternity to bring war upon the minions of the Four, but I did not expect it to take this course. I see it in others too, many of my own. Andricus and Laudus are reluctant to discuss it with me.’
‘It is simple, Lord-Celestant. Your warriors have died and returned. Their alteration is inevitable.’
The Lord-Relictor carried a heavy reliquary: the bones of a hero from the Age of Myth in an open casket upon a staff. The casket was surmounted by a starburst of gold, and many other fittings of metal besides. It was heavy, but Ionus carried it as if it were nothing, and easily kept pace with Calanax’s swaying stride.
‘How is this inevitable?’
‘Death is a constant. It wraps everything, binding all fate as tight as a funeral shroud. One day, all this will die. Sigmar will die, you and I will die, the Four will die. We are eternal, yes, but even eternity is not without end. When all else is dead, then death will be the last to die. Sigmar defies death with his magic, plucking us from the underworlds and reforging our mortal form. Death is jealous. When our warriors skirt the borders of that dark country, a part of them is stolen away.’
‘None can defy Sigmar,’ said Vandus.
‘Death can, Vandus. Death only seeks to take its due. Sigmar is the thief in this affair, not death,’ said Ionus. ‘And so death snatches at our spirits, and we return to this life a little diminished as we pass him by. The shortfall has to be made up somehow.’
‘With what?’
Ionus shrugged. ‘Sigmar is the lord of the storm – I serve him but I am of death’s realm. You ask me of death, and are right to do so, for I guard the souls of our comrades. But to know the secrets of the storm, one must ask the lord of storms. And I do not think he will give up his knowledge.’
Vandus blew out a breath.
‘There is something else on your mind, Hammerhand?’
‘Yes, there is more. I have been troubled by sights of things to come. Visions. I am unsure of them. Are they part of the God-King’s gift, or have I too been changed?’
‘You have not died. You remain as you were.’
‘Nevertheless, I was stolen from under death’s nose, and I was exposed to the fell energies of the Gate of Wrath. The unlight of Chaos touched me, Ionus. Have I become impure?’
‘Your visions are nothing to be afraid of. Or they might be. How will you know unless you act upon them? This is an age of wonder. Should your visions lead you falsely, pay them no heed and we shall discuss them further. We are fortunate in being able to suffer the worst lapses in judgement yet live to learn from them.’
‘Are you not afraid of what might happen to us when we die and return?’
‘Death cannot change me, because I already belong to death. Why would death try to take what it already owns? And if I should fall and become as Thostos after my remaking, then what of it? It will be only for a while. Death is a transition. To change is not only the purview of Chaos, but a necessary part of Order also.’
The road from the Bright Tor Gate turned towards the cliffs and began to climb. The gorge of the Silver River dropped away to their right. Behind them, the bizarre sight of the celestial wyrm Argentine heating the Great Crucible dominated the sky. Beyond the cliffs the mountains stepped up, walling away the sky.
At the brink, where the road crossed the cliff top and joined the main Anvrok highway, were two crumbling towers. Once a toll gate
perhaps, they were now piles of windblasted stone. Upon them snapped the banners of the Stormhosts in Anvrok’s hot wind. The angle of the road’s ascent allowed Vandus to see far up and down the line. He caught sight of Thostos, a lonely figure at the front of a tongue of brilliant blue-green. There was a gap of a hundred feet between Vandus’ own position and the last of the Celestial Vindicators. Behind the Hammers of Sigmar came the Lions of Sigmar, and so on, a long stream of warriors that led back to the Bright Tor Gate. The road was a marvel of duardin engineering, and although it had seen no maintenance for centuries there were few holes in its well-paved surface. The buttresses holding back the cliffs had stood the test of time and the roadway remained largely clear of debris.
Vandus thought on what Ionus said for a time, as the wide highway mounted higher and the thin lands of the river’s margin dropped away. ‘Do you think me a coward for asking on this, Ionus?’ he asked. ‘I assure you I am not. I pledged myself to Sigmar body and soul, and he has rewarded me well. I only wish to know the full price I am being asked to p–’
Vandus was interrupted by a whooping screech. He looked upwards, towards the top of the cliff, and saw tendrils of dark magic. A titanic rumbling growled across the Vale of Anvrok, building to a deafening cacophony, and a long swathe of the cliff face peeled away and came down. Calanax reared, backing into the Knights-Vexillor following Vandus and Ionus. Thostos’ Stormhosts ahead threw themselves into a desperate run as a mountain’s worth of ore-rich boulders crashed down upon them. Many could not get clear in time, and were swept away to their deaths or buried alive. Vandus’ Hammerhands surged behind him, desperate to get to their buried fellows and pushed by the weight of the column still marching up towards them.
‘Back, back! Do not approach!’ shouted Vandus.
All heeded the wisdom of their lord and halted. From higher up the mountains a second avalanche rushed from the high peaks, dislodged by the collapse of the cliff face, dumping thousands of tonnes of ice and snow atop the rocks.
‘Stop the march!’ Vandus raised a hand and a frantic series of trumpet calls rang back down the road. The column came to a stumbling halt.
The noise stopped. Stray boulders bounced only yards from his position. Puffs of storm-magic burst from the landslide, whisked upwards to join the distant thunderheads as trapped men succumbed to their wounds.
Dust sifted through the air. By now it was late afternoon and the sun coloured the metal-rich cloud a pale yellow. For a moment shocked silence reigned, to be shattered by braying laughter drifting down from the mountains above.
‘Beastmen,’ Lord Vandus shouted. ‘At them!’
Calanax roared and his draconic voice carried far back down the road. A score of Lord-Celestants broke from the leading three Stormhosts, their dracoths leaping to the mountainside. Vandus leaned forward as Calanax bounded upwards, his sharp claws and momentum propelling him up the nearly sheer surface. They reached the top of the cliff where the main road ran. There, the Bright Tor Mountains intruded deep into the valley, and five peaks reared their snowy heads high above. The scaled beasts bounded onto the slopes beyond the main road.
The beastmen, a strange copper-skinned breed, occupied a shallow ridge cutting out from the mountain. They were spread some distance along the road, but there was a thick knot of them on a canted ledge, grouped around one that Vandus assumed to be the leader. The beast-chief, a shaman of some sort, was a heavily built mutant, his aura alive with dark power. Vandus headed right for him. To his left and right, beastmen broke and ran, their nimble goat’s legs granting them unnatural agility on the steep mountainside. But the dracoths were quicker, as surefooted as mountain lions. Terrified bleating echoed through the peaks as the dracoths ran down their prey and tore them apart.
Vandus burst through the shaman’s bodyguard. These were larger and better armoured than the feeble specimens the other Lord-Celestants slew, but Calanax ripped them to pieces with his heavy claws just the same. Crude weapons bounced from Calanax’s peytral, and those that hit his body were turned by his thick hide. The dracoth bit down hard on a creature and shook his jaws viciously, casting the broken body aside. Vandus was intent upon the leader. The shaman raised a staff of black oak that burned with unholy power, but Vandus smote the creature on the head, slaying it instantly. The ledge was cleared.
‘Back, back to the column!’ shouted Vandus. He waved his hammer around as a signal then slid from Calanax’s back, bent down to the corpse of the beast-shaman and took his prize.
The Lord-Celestants returned to the column. Vandus rode up to Ionus and cast the head of the beastlord to the ground.
‘Swift vengeance,’ said Ionus.
‘Aye,’ said Vandus. ‘Yet the damage to the Celestial Vindicators cannot be undone.’ He was concerned, and a little afraid. ‘Some of these men meet their third deaths today. One wonders what they will become.’
Vandus called to his signallers and his Knights-Heraldor.
‘We must hold the march. Get men to the top of the cliffs and send Prosecutors to the mountain tops. And find me our scouts. I want to know how this ambush was missed.’ Vandus surveyed the fan of rubble burying the road. ‘Send back to the gate for workers and wizard-wrights. We can go no further before we have cleared the way.’ He looked back angrily down the stalled column. ‘This will cost us at least a day.’
Chapter Four
The Shattered City
The clearance of the road took time the Stormcasts could ill afford to lose. Vandus urged his men and the workers on to harder efforts, aware always that the delay suited their enemies perfectly. Once the digging had finished, the column set out again, up onto the great highway of Anvrok, and towards their goal. The Bright Tor Mountains brooded over their march, but even they seemed paltry things to the great tower of the sorcerer. This grew ever loftier as they closed, the great eye of Tzeentch sculpted into the top glaring at them from a great height.
Centuries of desolation had done little to diminish the scale of Elixia, and the men looked upon it with sorrow and awe. The tall walls of the Eldritch Fortress withdrew behind shattered ruins as the Stormhosts marched nearer, leaving only the tower visible. Broken buildings crowded the road with increasing density upon the approach, but the city proper was a jagged silhouette upon a bluff.
Vandus ordered a halt at the foot of these cliffs and called a council of war. The twelve Stormhosts were each sent to a different point of the tumbled walls, while a dozen Warrior Chambers were directed northwards to reinforce the Stormcasts holding the Silverway entrance. This could be seen far away, a dark slot in another tumbledown city clinging to the mountainside.
Bidding his men be wary, Vandus ordered the advance of the Stormhosts. He and Thostos led the way through a melted gateway that must once have been every bit as impressive as those of Azyrheim. As Vandus looked upon Elixia’s despoliation a thought troubled his mind over and again – this could so easily have been the fate of Azyr had Sigmar not sealed the realmgates.
Statuary lay broken in the streets, ornate temples and palaces were roofless derelicts, only the dryness of Anvrok saving them from total disintegration. Everywhere Vandus witnessed the touch of Chaos: twisted statues, deformations to the ground, buildings warped into ludicrous monstrosities, terrified faces trapped in stone. Friezes and statues were subtly warped to mocking effect: town dignitaries had the heads of swine, gods the faces of fools. Sorrowful phantoms cried on the wind, and when birds were scared up from their eyries, they clattered skywards on wings of metal, shouting in the voices of men.
The Stormhosts were forced to go retinue by retinue along the streets, for their sheer numbers hampered their manoeuvres. The columns, already split on entering the city, were forced to divide again. Tumbled heaps of scrap further blocked the streets, slowing them to a crawl. The Bladestorm and the Hammerhand Warrior Chambers went together, always at the fore.
Where the voices of the
dead were absent, silence ruled the place, swallowing up the footsteps of the Stormcasts. Thostos burned with a palpable fury, his eyes fixed upon the tower of the sorcerer. Andricus Stoneheart shook his head at Vandus. Both were wary of Thostos’ change, and Vandus was tense, anticipating disaster to come.
They reached a wide square, paved with green slabs of copper and bronze. Ruined workshops surrounded the space, with enough of their collapsed arcades still intact to hint at the square’s past glories. Upon the wall was a sign in ancient script.
‘The Square of Living Blades,’ read Vandus.
‘Here was the armoury of Celemnis, Maiden of the Blades,’ said Ionus. He gestured to an impressive ruin on the west side of the square. ‘There she bound threads of her hair into the core of each sword. It is said that they could cut through soul and flesh with equal ease.’
In the centre was a single statue of tarnished silver upon a tall plinth. There was a haunting beauty to the woman it depicted, and an overwhelming sadness.
‘That must be her, but she died when the city fell, or so I would have thought. Who raised a statue to her?’ Ionus paused, suddenly alert. Vandus held up his fist, halting his men.
‘What is it?’
‘Death. Pain. Something else…’ Ionus’ words trailed off. His eyes were drawn to the collapsed arches of the arcade, and a movement there. ‘Watch the shadows!’ called Cryptborn urgently. His Retributor bodyguard drew in close.
As if Ionus’ warning were a signal, hundreds of horned warriors came scrambling from the ruins, screaming incoherently.
‘The sorcerer’s minions,’ said Thostos. ‘This time he sends evil men to contest our approach.’
‘We shall pass the test, brother,’ said Vandus. ‘Liberators, forward! Judicators, take the high ground!’ he ordered. ‘These are irritants, nothing more.’
Thostos made no reply, but lifted his hammer and sword and thundered into the square, sparks fizzling on his armour. Savages leapt from the arcade to fall upon him, but they were hurled back, their blood painting the metal red. Lord Thostos drove on across the square, hacking his way towards the road at the other side. His men streamed from the column and ran after him.
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